


Beyond Reasonable Doubt

by To_the_end_of_the_line



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Lists, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/To_the_end_of_the_line/pseuds/To_the_end_of_the_line
Summary: Agent Philip Coulson writes a list of all the reasons he and Clint wouldn't work.Their time together slowly proves each and every one wrong.1. It's against protocol2. He is a risk taker, acts upon instinct, often puts himself in danger3. Our jobs (first priority)4. Schedules, run with the wind, rarely in the same time zone5. He is not my only asset, cannot be accused of looking out for him over another (Natasha)6. He couldn't stay, his security depends on SHIELD7. I cannot be compromised, I have to make snap life or death decision, cannot be subjective8. I have to be able to pull the trigger. I have to be able to terminate him if necessary9. He doesn't know I'm alive anymore10. It hurts too much loving him





	Beyond Reasonable Doubt

One  
It becomes difficult to find the line between the job and reality in this line of work. Phil spends almost every waking hour in his office, on the field, wherever he is required- only ever taking a break when absolutely necessary. He knows a fair few agents in almost the exact same position as him.  
It gets lonely.  
Almost anyone will tell you that. Coming back home to an empty bed, cold sheets and dead silence, it's a heavy weight to bare. It's the reason most agents throw themselves into the job and reduce their chances of finding someone to share the bed with them to zero. Phil himself is guilty of this.  
The only people someone in Phil's position tends to confer with (aside from the obvious Fury, Hill etc.) are those he is responsible for. Fraternizing with those in his care would be frowned upon. Nothing can matter more than a mission, more than his job. It's written somewhere in the bylaws. And Agent Coulson has always been a stickler for the rules.  
“Did you hear?” Phil had never been one to pay too much attention to work place gossip but when gossip comes barging through his door, the best retort he has is an unimpressed raised eyebrow and a sigh.  
“Barton.” 'This better be important' goes unsaid. He's almost certain it is not. His and Barton's ideas of important tend deviate.  
“Sitwell and Anderson.” The grin on his face says enough really. “They've been dating for almost a year. Fury didn't know a thing.” Phil disagrees with the final statement. There are usually more pressing issues for the director to attend to. However, Sitwell is almost as well renowned as Phil himself. He was Anderson's handler.  
A day later Fury discretely removes any evidence of Handler/Asset affiliation protocol from the bylaws. Phil notices though.

Two  
“Barton, talk to me.” Clint switches off his earpiece and stamps it into the ground, placing his bow and holster beside the scattered pieces. If this thing goes south, there can be nothing tracing him back to SHIELD. He's acting alone and there are so many lives at stake- his own the least of his worries.  
“I'm sorry, Agent Coulson.” He takes off running, not wanting to delay this any more than necessary. Armed with only a gun, he needs to get to ground level and inside without being sighted. They've already lost too many men. Clint was forced to listen as they were massacred. So many good men slaughtered where the stood, whilst the infamous Hawkeye stood watch. They didn't expect them to have the man power nor the resources. He should have been with them.

“We have an agent out on an unsanctioned mission.” His heart is racing in his chest. “I want a team of agents with me. Now.” He had told Clint the op was too dangerous and that he'd send in a bigger team with more firepower and a better chance but there was no guarantee they'd make in time. Clint obviously didn't agree with those odds, taking matters into his own hands.

He makes it in, taking to the rafters, using his years as a scout/assassin/spy to his advantage. Evacuate the hostages; recover any and all WMDs; take out the ring leader and watch the ranks fall a apart.  
It's horrendous. Worse than Clint could have imagined. Bodies of his friends and associates line the exits but it's so much worse the further he travels. He's read the files. An artefact that destroys with a touch, being replicated into a toxin in the waterways. Thousands in a nearby village have already perished. That isn't the half of it though. Those that have survived contact with the artefact have been promised a new life, superpowers, glory, the lot. But the most important thing they were promised? Safety.  
Following the trail of bodies, he ends up in a room reminiscent of a hospital wing. His stomach lurches. He's seen some shit in his life but this... this- Clint can barely look without wanting to sob, wanting to vomit, wanting to murder the monster in charge slowly and painfully with a rusty scalpel, a dirty syringe and white hot fire.  
Blood soaks every sheet but that isn't what turns the archer's stomach. Innocent civilians fill every bed, all of them cut open, part of their bodies replaced or removed, being experimented on. There are signs above their beds and suddenly it all makes sense. There's a reason they didn't send Clint in too.  
Above four of the beds to his left: Hawkeye. Four attempts- the first three marked failed and terminated. He doesn't want to look but he can't stop himself. Their arms have been removed and replaced with what he can only assume are prosthetics intended to mimic his arm strength. The stumps, which seem to have only been cauterised with boiling oil or something similar, are red and angry and infected. Their eyes- removed and replaced with bionic lenses, used to mimic his vision.  
He drags his eyes away but the sight he is met with is so much worse. Black Widow, Hulk, Captain America, Iron Man, Wolverine, Storm. They're building an army. Trying to recreate whatever it is that makes a master archer, assassin, super-soldier. The are experimenting on innocent people.  
Clint sees red. He doesn't know how but by the time the handcuffs are fastened around his wrist a trail of fresh bodies lie in his wake. The entire force demolished in a flurry of pure rage and disgust.  
“I couldn't save them.” He looks up to Phil, tears in his eyes. The agent's heartbeat races, hands aching to reach out. “It's my fault.” Before he can respond, Clint is carted away.

 

Three  
The archer looks up as the door swings open. He hasn't slept, eaten or drunk since he woke up in this cell, so the sudden movement causes his vision to white at the edges. It takes a moment for his eyes to clear revealing the visage of Coulson.  
Clint grits his teeth and doesn't say a word.  
“Agent Barton.” It's all too formal and Clint's entire body feels as tense as a bow string waiting to release. He drops his gaze to his hands rested on the table before him, still speckled with blood and the faces scratch the surface of his thoughts again. The failed Hawkeyes. The experiments, all of which are dead because he got cocky. He flaunted himself, let himself be a spectacle, let the world think he was more than human and people got hurt because of it.  
“I'm resigning from Shield.” He swears he hears Coulson gasp quietly but it's over before he can be completely sure. “I can't- I can't...” His words trail off as he is consumed by his thoughts. Their still bodies. Their corpses. His hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palm and drawing blood. It is taking all his willpower not to release the sob in his throat, not to breakdown, not to overwhelm himself with agony if only to distract himself for a minute. He's too close this time. It's personal.  
“Talk to me, Barton.” Those words, which send shivers up his spine are impossible to ignore. He's heard them so many times over the comms in the field. He's heard them in his ear whilst bleeding out, whilst watching his squadron walk into a death trap, whilst scouting out a potentially life threatening situation; and he gives himself over to them every time. It's as if Phil knows when he's bottling something up, when he needs to let it out or when he needs to talk to distract himself from everything happening around him.  
Clint feels the first tears begin trailing down his cheeks.  
“None of them asked for it. They watched everyone die..” He chokes around the sob. “They lost everyone and they thought they'd be safe.” He has to stop talking to breath. Heavy pants and sweat stained skin. So close to regurgitating the emptiness of his stomach. He digs his nails in further.  
Coulson stands heading towards the door, the archer completely expecting him to leave. Instead he turns the lock, sealing them in and pulls the plug from the CCTV.  
“Let it out, Clint.” That's it. Phil letting him know that it's okay. That they aren't being watched and he's not doing his duty right now. He's here for Clint and Clint alone. This isn't part of the job.  
So Clint does.  
He stands heading straight for the wall and punches as hard as his strength allows. The subsequent crack is audible but Phil is there. Phil will stop him going too far and he will patch him up afterwards. No one else will know what happened in this room and Phil won't make Clint talk about any of this, unless the archer decides otherwise.  
His fist strikes the wall, (he won't be able to shoot for a while but he supposes that's a good thing after everything he's seen) yelling his frustrations into the wood until his throat is raw and blood coats his arms. And when the fight dies out of him and he feels numb, he sinks to the floor, resting his forehead on the closest fast surface and just sobs- ugly and breathy- until they stop too and Phil is beside him.  
“Promise me you won't leave Shield.” He has Clint's damaged hand in his own, surveying the damage. It's a little selfish of him to ask but he can't stop himself. If Clint left shield, Phil can't say he wouldn't too.  
“Okay.”

Four  
His entire body aches. He has sprains and bruises in places he wasn't even certain existed until now but the nature of the job and whatnot...  
It feels good to stretch his legs outside of the carrier, even if it is only to walk around the garage for a moment. Three weeks away will do that to a person. It helps having something to come back to even if he feels guilty allowing himself to thinkthat.  
Clint had called him everyday. They both know how lonely these missions are, how you can lose yourself without a human connection, so they provide that for one another whenever necessary. It doesn't replace the real thing but they make do, and when they return they fall into old patterns: Clint hanging around Phil's office; impromptu meals when they realise neither has eaten in a while; daily training sessions on the range.  
“Good to have you back, sir.” He forces himself to school his expression before he turns.

 

Five  
“So now you must choose between your oh so precious assets, Agent Coulson?” It had happened without warning. What promised to be a simple mission turned into something unexpected and overwhelming. They had been drastically outgunned and out-manned. The three of them had had to watch as men, good men, were murdered where they stood.  
They were chained and lead into a stark room,- grey concrete walls, high ceiling, no windows, no furniture, one door- where they were thrown to the ground and guns were turned on them.  
Both Natasha and Clint have guns held firmly against the side of their temples. Phil has two guns aimed at him from a distance.  
“Who gets to live?” His stomach turns over and at his lack of response the guns are cocked and pressed further into their heads. They have trained for this. Phil's heart longs to say Clint but the archer is giving him a look that he wishes he wasn’t so familiar with. Widow is their best chance. She's the fastest, most nimble. “Decide now or I shoot them both.”  
“Her.” He can't look up as it happens because there is so much room for error (one wrong move and they both have bullets through their skulls, Clint is dead) but he can catalogue every move in his head. The gun is pulled from Natasha's temple at the same time she forces her body up despite the restraints around her wrists. She headbutts her attacker and uses her entire self to force him into the man holding Clint hostage as his finger squeezes around the trigger. Both men are knocked out cold but three shots are fired. One from the now unconscious assailant. None of them hit Clint... or Natasha.  
One bullet buries itself deep into a concrete wall.  
Two bullets strike Phil. He made the right call. Both assets are secure, Clint having knocked out the other two men and Phil has successfully performed his duty.

 

Six  
Phil wakes up in a hospital bed two weeks later. It takes his eyes a long while to adjust to the harsh light of the room.  
“Welcome back to the land of the living, sir.” Clint is sat beside his bed in the uncomfortable visitor's chair, looking exhausted, unclean, famished and maybe a little to close to the best thing Phil has seen in a long time. “I've been thinking, we need to review our hostage situation plan. I'm not too sure I like the ending.” The archer is smiling but there's something brutally honest in his voice. He isn't joking around. “The beginning and middle were tolerable, I suppose.”  
“You and Natasha both got out okay?” Clint nods, a sharp jolt of the head. “That sounds like a success if you ask me.”  
“I'd be inclined to agree if I hadn't been waiting for my handler to wake up from a two week long coma in a shitty plastic chair, smelling like sewage and listening to him flat-line more times than I'm strictly comfortable with.” The previous smile nowhere to be seen now, the pretence having long disintegrated.  
“You shouldn't have stayed. You could lose your job.”  
“Fuck my job.”

 

Seven  
They didn't know what it was. All anyone knows is that it was Chitauri in origin and anyone who comes into contact with the 084 contracts a virus which after 36 hours releases an electromagnetic pulse killing the host.  
Clint had been placed on surveillance but with Hydra operatives moving in on the artefact there was little time left to decide. Potentially lose the 084 to Hydra whilst waiting for backup and risk mass infection or send Clint in with no guarantee.  
“Let me go in.”  
“We don't have enough intel.” Phil sighs through the comms. These 'discussions' (some might prefer the term arguments) have become a constant in Phil's life. Clint is always ready to throw himself into the bullpen, Coulson is rarely inclined to share the sentiment.  
“We have intel on Hydra. They get there hands on this, bad things happen.” There's no denying that.  
“Don't touch anything. Secure the premises and wait for backup.” It's not a call he wants to make but it sure as hell one he has to make. If he doesn't Clint will. That doesn't stop his heart racing and the voices in his head screaming at him throughout the operation.  
'Clint knows what he's doing. Clint will be fine,' He tells himself. Only when the order comes in does he himself think, 'Maybe the voices had a point'.

 

Eight  
“Shoot to kill.” The words ring in his ears, his vision burns white hot and his stomach aches with fear. He has been trained for this. It is his duty.  
“Coulson?” Barton's voice is light in his ear. He can hear the wet gargle in his tone. “I'm compromised.” He can hear the scrape of gravel, the hiss of pain, the heavy breath which tells Phil he's trying to mask his agony.  
“I know.” His voice is too weak, too pained, too revealing. He hears Barton chuckle through their comms and switches to a private channel, away from prying eyes.  
“Wow. Is that all you have to say to a dying man? I'm wounded.” Barton snorts a little at his own pun. He swears he can hear it in the air too. Close.  
“Where are you?”  
“Fuck if I know.” The temptation to scold his language is overruled by the pounding in his chest. “Not quite what I imagined for my last rodeo.”  
“Don't.” He hates that Clint is somewhere, minutes away from dying. A walking bomb threatening to emit a pulse that will level an entire street.  
“Are they safe?” The civilians- Phil's mind supplies instinctively. His team are evacuating as they speak.  
“All clear.”  
“Good. Didn't want my last act to be mass genocide. Not something I'm keen to be remembered for.” There's a pause, not long enough for Coulson to say anything. “Thank you.”  
“Agent-”  
“For everything.” And this times he's sure he heard it.  
“Keep talking.” It's an order this time.  
“Thought you hated chatter on the comms. You're getting soft in your old age.” His breathing is getting more staggered, more pained. None of the others infected sounded like this.  
“I have eyes on.” Their comms is no longer private as Phil finds Clint. He takes the ear piece out, throwing it to the side and rushes forward. There's blood. The knife in Clint's hand is coated and there are pools on the floor.  
Phil drops to the agent's side.  
“Remember what I said.” He sounds so much worse, slumped against this building on a rain soaked floor, covered in his own blood. Phil knows what he means. He wants to feign ignorance. 'When the time is right, when I'm compromised, you pull that trigger and you don't look back.' “I need you to do this for me.” The gun feels like acid against his skin. He can't. This is everything he has trained for, this is his duty as Clint's handler but he can't do it. “I trust you to kill me.”  
Barton isn't the only one that compromised. He reaches out.  
“DON'T.” Hawkeye yells, pulling away as fast as possible ignoring the amount of pain it causes him. “You'll get infected. Just shoot me.” He holds his hands up, putting up a barrier between the two of them. Phil can see the manic desperation and fear in his eyes. He forces his eyes away, looking at the gun instead.  
“Clint-”  
“We only have three minutes, sir. I need you to do this.” He brought Clinton Barton to Shield, he's devoted years of his life, millions of dollars worth of resources, himself to him; he can't give this up. “You need to do this or you need to run.” This is one man's blood he could never get off his hands. He drops the gun. “PHIL!”  
“I'm compromised.” He whispers plain and simple, wanting nothing more than to stunt the blood draining from his asset's body. Wanting to touch but not allowing himself.  
Barton stretches out towards the gun, wincing with every movement but Phil grabs it first, turning it on himself.  
“Phil, you need to leave now. Give me t-” Two rounds are fired before either of them can make a final call. The both slump to the ground.

He wakes up in a cell. Director Fury sat opposite.  
“What the fuck was that, Phil?”  
“Barton?”  
“Alive.” Phil feels like he can breathe again. “You're off field duty.” Fury sighs, as if this physically pains him and perhaps it does. Agent Philip Coulson is supposed to be one of Shield's most respected members and he let emotion cloud his judgement.  
“I can't be his handler any more.”  
“I wish you were wrong.”

 

Nine  
The last thing he wants right now is to open his eyes. He remembers the pain but his last thought is exactly what he had expected.  
He hadn't seen Barton until Loki's sceptre took him away. He had avoided him at all cost for an entire year only to lose him completely at the end of it all. He has made so many mistakes but that is easily the most painful.  
“You should have let me die.” He knows even before opening his eyes that Fury is there. Sat in a chair beside him or stood at the end of his bed, it doesn't matter. He's there. “I should be dead.”  
“Shield needs you more than ever right now.” Fury's way of saying he couldn't let him die.  
“How long?”  
“Two years.” Oh. “Shield has been infiltrated by Hydra. We need all the good men we can find right now. You've got a lot of catching up to do, Phil.”

“The Avengers?” The Battle of New York will forever go down in history. The day the human race learnt they weren't alone and the day they learnt superheroes are real and ready to fight for them.  
“It worked.” That's all he gets. No footage. No further answers. None of the answers he really wants but he won't ask the questions. He can't allow himself to be compromised any more. With the fall of Shield there is too much at stake. It's better to let himself keep living with the facts he already has.

“It's time they found out.” The world has lost faith in The Avengers. A year after Ultron and not once has the team been called in to fight together. The lack of contact has lead the world to believe they have disbanded.  
Coulson still hasn't asked. Almost five years since Loki and it still burns in his stomach. He still feels the ache, the emptiness but he is able to do his job. He refuses to let himself know more than absolutely necessary. He knows they fought. He knows Steve Rogers, Tony Stark and Bruce Banner are still alive. They're hard to avoid knowing about what with Tony being a billionaire, Steve being a national treasure and Bruce being the Hulk.  
Phil has distracted himself with other ops, other assets. Fury has left him to his own devices for the most part. It's easy to avoid the news whilst flying through the sky and throwing yourself into your job.  
“The Avengers?”  
“What the Avengers have become.”

A briefing was called. Phil was not given as much information or preparation as he would've liked but he knows how to be professional.  
Stepping ito that room is easily the most nervous he has ever felt. He hopes his expression gives nothing away. He feels the eyes on him. His eyes sweep across the room, not finding what he is searching for. His heart sinks a little.  
“Avengers.” He nods his head in their direction, acknowledging each and every dropped jaw and the few faces he doesn't completely recognise.  
“Is everyone else seeing this or has Natasha been playing with Russian Poisons again and I'm hallucinating?” Tony is the first to speak. Of course he fucking is. He hears a yelp of pain, which he assumes is Natasha kicking him under the table. He nods his thanks.  
“Agent Coulson.” Steve Rogers stands to shake his hand, wide-eyed and confused but welcoming and polite nevertheless. “We're glad to have you back.”  
“Zombie Coulson, who'd have thought?” This time Cap is the one to level Stark with a glare. Hill chooses this moment to interject.  
“Director Fury has assigned Agent Coulson as your handler. From now you report to him.” She leaves with a small smile to him. He wasn't aware of that.  
“So...how?” The Avengers remain in stunned silence.  
“I'm not entirely clear on the specifics. Dead for 8 seconds, a coma for almost two years.”  
“You're return brings us much joy, Son of Coul.” Thor beams brightly at him. Phil had meant what he told Sif, this man is a friend.  
“Thank you. I'm sure we have a lot to catch up on.” He takes a seat at the head of the table. Each one of the Avenger's files sits before him. He flicks through them idly taking in the names: Steve Rogers, Anthony Stark, Bruce Banner, Sam Wilson, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, Thor Odinson, Wanda Maximoff, Vision, and... his finger stutters over the next file- Clinton Barton. He looks around again but there's no sign. He wants to ask. He doesn't let himself. He catches Natasha's gaze across the room, she noticed. “Lets start with The Battle of New York.”  
Natasha brought him back. Loki hadn't killed him. Clint is currently on mission and doesn't know yet.

Phil gets the call at two in morning. Hawkeye had missed check in. The mission has gone south and the Avengers are being called in.  
“Widow on your six.” Cap calls out just as a hostile shoots.  
“Any sign?” She asks through the comms.  
“Nothing yet.” It's another Hydra base, containing weapons stolen from The Fridge. It was supposed to be a terminate and recover mission- simple by the norms they function on.  
“I want Hawkeye found and on the comms.” Phil demands, their priority is the rescue of the civilians being held hostage, which were used to draw out the Avengers. “Cap, Scarlett, I need you inside with the civilians. Iron Man, War Machine, recover any Shield artefacts and useful information. The rest of you, take them down.” He feels thrown in. This is the infamous deep end but this is no different from any other mission he has commanded before. Except it is.  
“We're in.” Steve confirms through the comms. “About fifty or so civilian hostages and...” He goes silent.  
“Captain?”  
“Hawkeye's hit.”  
“Status.” It more of a command than a question. Phil feels a familiar pain, a familiar ache resurface.  
“What took you so long?” He can't help the sigh of relief as Clint's position lights up on the maps. He's wired back into to the comms.  
“Cleaning up after you.” He can feel Natasha's smile through the comms. He stays silent allowing them to focus on the mission. The sounds of gunshots, Hulk's roars and Captain America's consoling voice light up through the channel.  
It doesn't take long before the remaining Hydra agents are either dead or barely alive.  
“All clear out here.”  
“The civilians are secure.”  
“We have the files.”  
“I want you back on base once the state department arrives on scene. Stark, bring in Hawkeye. Widow, get ready with the lullaby.” It's quick, authoritative but Phil didn't even manage to convince himself that the nerves were there. He could here them in the tremors of his voice.  
“Okay, I've definitely lost a lot of blood. I'm hallucinating. It's been nice working with you all, not you Wilson. Stark, I want an all expenses paid funeral or I'm haunting you. Tell Fury I love him.” Phil signs off the comms.

 

Ten  
“I can't be his handler.”  
“So this is what deja vu feels like.” Fury sighs at Phil. “It's been five years. You're different people now.”  
“I can't be objective, not when he's involved.” It's the most honest he has ever been. “I can't put him in the line of fire even if it will save hundreds.”  
“But you will.”  
“He doesn't even know I'm alive, ”  
“I know you, Phil. You will do what needs to be done. I'm not letting you get away this time.”

He looks young whilst asleep. He looks young whilst awake but in a more energetic toddler sort of way. When he's asleep you can't see the pain in his eyes, the years of heartache and weariness. You can't see the skeletons in his closet, the ghosts of his past. He just looks peaceful.  
Phil shouldn't be here. Sat beside his bed after five years. It all feels wrong as if he no longer belongs here. He doesn't. He should be dead but if not that he definitely doesn't deserve to be near Clint. It's been six years since he was Clint's handler- nothing more than that- Phil got too involved and they both paid the price.  
He stands to leave but a hand wrapped around his wrist stops him.  
“What the fuck, Coulson?” He's staring at his hand around Phil as if he expected it to go straight through. As if Phil is a ghost. He pulls away as if he'd just put his hand to a flame. Clint looks up, eyes wide- shock, confusion, fear, anger, resentment. “You died. You're dead. Fucking hell. I went to your funeral.” Phil didn't even know he had one, let alone that anyone, Clint, would turn up. “I watched them put you in the ground.”  
“Eight seconds.” Somehow that seems relevant now. Clint clearly understands what he means.  
“I couldn't give a fuck if it was eight seconds or eight weeks. You're dead. You've been dead for five years. You left us.” Clint spits the words, anger taking hold. Phil deserves it.  
“Dead for eight seconds, coma for two years.”  
“So you kept us in the dark for three years? You think that's any better.” His fists clench into fists in his lap.  
“I didn't know you were alive. Fury gave me a team and sent us out to fight Hydra. I didn't ask questions.”  
“Fuck you.” Phil deserves this. He wants Clint to get angry. His heart clenches nevertheless. “So that's it then. You didn't even care enough to ask.”  
“Of course I cared. I cared too fucking much.” Clint's face goes cold, blank, unreadable.  
“No. You don't get to do that. Not any more.” Somehow empty is worse than anger. “Get out.”  
“Clint-”  
“GET OUT!” So he leaves, like he did six years ago and then again five years ago. Like he should have done fourteen years ago.

There's so much Phil wants to say. He expected Clint's reaction. If Phil hadn't left things on such a sour note, he's sure they would at least be on talking terms now. If Phil hadn't gotten too attached...  
“Talk to him.” Natasha's deathly silent approach as formidable as ever.  
“I've done enough.” And he honestly believes it. He should have left Clint alone the minute he was safe with Shield but he let himself get drawn in by the fantasy. The master marksman, the human hero. It started off as something akin to hero-worship, evolved into a steady working relationship, then friendship and then Phil let it go too far. He wasn't equipped to be the man's handler but he let Barton convince he was and he just went head over heels from there.  
“You didn't see him after.” He doesn't turn to face her but he can feel her presence behind his left shoulder. The place where he usually stands. He's usually the voice in your ear, the presence watching over your shoulder. “We fought to avenge you but after that Clint... he-he was lost. It was like he didn't know where he fit in any more, like he'd lost a part of himself; and some days it was like breathing hurt too much.” There's pain in her voice. Clint is her weakness. It's something they've always had in common. “After the funeral he resigned, took off in the wind and none of us heard anything for weeks. We found him almost eight weeks later, bloodied, bruised, starved, borderline dead. He'd gone in search of Loki, to seek revenge but instead found a bunch of mercenaries with his name on their lists. Not one of their buyers had asked for a slow death, they wanted him to suffer.” It never gets easier no matter how many times you are tortured. Natasha's breath hitches. “The worst part? He asked me to leave him, told me to turn away and never come back. Maybe that had been his plan all along- I don't know. The point is, he needed you, needs you not matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise. You keep him grounded, you make him feel safe, you were the first to stay. I guess he assumed you'd always be there and forgot how to live without you.” He turns towards her but she isn't there any more.

It helps that Clint is still confined to bed rest in medical. He doesn't even look up when Phil walks in probably expecting him.  
“Leave.” There's none of the same anger as before, instead it's like he's stopped caring. Phil would've believed it if not for Natasha's words.  
“No.” Clint all but deflates in defeat as if he doesn't even have the energy to fight any more. “We need to talk.”  
“I'm guessing I don't have a choice, sir.” And doesn't that sting. Distancing himself through a snarked 'sir'.  
“Not this time. Just hear me out and then I'll go.” Clint just gestures aimlessly to a chair beside his bed and honestly Coulson is glad for the moment to compose himself. “After The Battle of New York I thought you were dead but before that I had no excuses. I'm sure you remember. The truth is you were more than an asset to me and I let that get in the way of my duty almost killing the both of us. I couldn't make objective decisions, the shoot to kill order proved that, so I distanced myself.” Clint scoffs at that. “Okay. Fine. I left. Complete radio silence because I thought that's what I needed and then Loki happened and then I died. Three years later I woke up to the end of Shield, so I didn't ask because I assumed. I didn't know you were alive until a few days ago, otherwise I wouldn't have announced myself like this.” Phil stands to leave. It isn't enough but Clint doesn't need the full story.  
“That's a load of shit and we both know it.” Coulson can't help but turn back in shock. He'd been expecting silence or maybe a 'fuck you' again. “I didn't want any of this. You're the one that convinced me to join Shield, you're the one that convinced me to join the Avengers. Before all of this I knew I'd die young and I didn't care but you convinced me to keep living. I let myself believe you and I kept believing you because unlike everyone else in my life you didn't leave. You stayed. You were the first person to do that, so I stayed too... probably for the same reason you did. And then you were gone just like everyone else and I blamed myself, fell into same old patterns. I blamed myself for five years and you can't even tell me the fucking truth.”  
“Clint-”  
“Why couldn't you kill me when I asked?” He asks plain and simple.  
“I-”  
“Why didn't you ask about me when you woke up?”  
“Because I needed you to be alive.”  
“Why?”  
“Because you're important. Because you mean something. Because my life felt empty without you in it.” He looks Clint straight in the eye as he projects the words onto him in a mad rush. He's kept them buried for long enough.  
“Do you mean that like I mean it?” And for the first time there's no anger. Only hope.  
“I am completely devoted to you.”  
“I was kind of stabbed a little so forgive me if the swoon isn't evident.” Clint's smile lights up the room and isn't that just the sappiest thing. “I'm sort of bed bound so unless you're having some sort of crisis right now, I'd really appreciate if you came here.” His feet act on instinct and before his brain has even caught up, Clint has pulled Phil down on to the bed and has his arms wrapped around his neck. Phil can't stop himself burying his face into the archer's neck, breathing him in and almost crying at the familiar scent. In the best possible way it's like coming home. Phil's finally home.

 

Clint's Amendment  
It doesn't happen all at once. That night at the hospital just happened to be the kick start Phil needed after years of skirting around the issue but now he wants to do it properly.  
“I'll pick you up at eight.” He can't help the grin on his lips. Clint can probably hear it through the phone but this is the happiest he's felt in a long time- as long as he can remember anyway.  
“See you then.” The line goes dead. Phil's grin still doesn't falter. Finally.

He makes it to work ten minutes early and heads straight for his office. It's dark as he enters the room but he knows his office like the back of his hand. The room is quickly illuminated, although today something catches his eye. Something out of it's usual place. A leather bound notepad sits open at the exact centre of his desk, rather than the draw he usually locks it away in. The page is one he is overly familiar with, having added to it ten times over the last 14 years. There's a new amendment, one in an equally as recognisable scrawl. A simple note reading: “He already loves you, shithead- Clint”, signed with an arrow through the T.


End file.
